by Karin Story
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WHERE TIGERS PROWL
by
KARIN STORY
Amber Quill Press, LLC
http://www.amberquill.com
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Where Tigers Prowl
An Amber Quill Press Book
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
Amber Quill Press, LLC
http://www.amberquill.com
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.
Copyright © 2003 by Where Tigers Prowl
ISBN 1-59279-092-5
Cover Art © 2003 Trace Edward Zaber
Rating: R
Layout and Formatting
Provided by: Elemental Alchemy
http://www.elementalalchemy.com
Published in the United States of America
Also by Karin Story
Lonely Heart
Tangled Hearts
Dedication
This one's for you, Mike, with all my love
Acknowledgments
A huge thanks, as always, to Brenda Smith-Beagley, Diana Cosby, and Nancy Warren for their advice, support, and friendship. A very special thank you to Caro LaFever, who, as my critique partner and friend from the beginning of this writing journey, somehow managed to maintain her sanity and good humor as this book morphed from a "short" contemporary romance into the tome it is today. There isn't enough chocolate in the universe to pay off my debt of gratitude to you, my dear friend! Thank you also to the staff at Amber Quill Press, who are the most amazing, dedicated team of people I've ever had the honor of working with; and especially my editor, Laura Abbott, for all her help in making this book shine. And last but absolutely not least, hugs and kisses to Josh and Chance, who are always understanding when it's time for me to write, and who, along with their dad, fill my life with sunshine and love.
Prologue
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The tall man lounged against the gleaming mahogany bar, one Armani-clad leg crossed over the other.
He scanned the room, his eyes alert and guarded, speculatively eyeing potential enemies and allies among the group. His long fingers caressed the gold cigarette lighter he held in his hand, subconsciously moving them in rhythm to the live, classical guitar playing at one end of the upper salon.
The party was in full swing, and as always, their host was nothing if not generous and ostentatious.
Men in elegant tuxedos and women in glittering evening gowns gathered in groups like brightly colored flocks of birds. The elaborate crystal chandeliers sparkled and danced from the sway of the yacht's movement on the rough seas. A large ice sculpture sat in the middle of the buffet table, a delicate, graceful swan, named after the yacht itself—The Silver Swan, out of Great Neck, New York.
Raucous cheers sprang up from the roulette wheel, and the tall man moved his gaze in that direction.
The host of the party emerged from the crowd, slapping several acquaintances on the back as he passed through. He sauntered up beside the tall man and leaned his short but solid body against the bar. His black eyes sparkled with intelligence and humor under his heavy, dark brow.
"Are you finding anything to spark your interest tonight, mi amigo?" he asked with a broad smile, the whiteness of his teeth clashing with his blood red bow tie.
The tall man gazed down at him. "Your parties are always…interesting, Juan."
Returning his attention to the room, his eyes fixed on a figure who'd just entered from the door on the aft deck. The man, not dressed for the occasion, but rather in a gray Wall Street-type suit, slipped quietly into the room and breezed through the throng of people. His craggy face was a blank mask.
Mateo St. Dominguez, Juan's right hand man. Crisp, efficient, businesslike.
Mateo stopped in front of them. "Señores," he greeted in a deep, gravelly voice. He leaned closer to Juan, whispering now, but loudly enough for the tall man to hear him. "The guest is gone, Señor. The guard at the door no longer lives. A search of the Swan has already been completed, but he is not aboard."
At this news, the tall man tightened his grip on the lighter, feeling its cold weight grind into the flesh of his palm. With steady calm, he slipped it into the breast pocket of his jacket and fixed a cold stare on his host.
Juan hissed a curse under his breath. "Send the helicopter out to look for him," he commanded Mateo, pointing his ringed finger out into the dark night. "Go! Before the weather worsens!"
Mateo left the room as swiftly as he'd entered it.
Juan turned his now hard and unyielding gaze to meet the tall man's. "You are responsible for this," he said in a brittle voice.
"I'm responsible for this?" The tall man gave him a mocking scowl. "I think not. He wouldn't have been here in the first place if you hadn't demanded to hold the meeting this week."
"No!" the other man barked. "Do not shift the blame to me. He would not have been here at all if you had been able to control him. You let this get out of hand. We should have done it my way."
The tall man raised an eyebrow sardonically. "Your way doesn't quite cut it in this country, my friend. We're more civilized here."
"Civilized?" Juan laughed sharply. "Is that what you call your method of operation?" His eyes turned steely again. "No matter now. We are thirty kilómetros from your civilization. There is a storm brewing out in the ocean. We will be lucky to make it to Newport before the seas and wind get savage. If he is no longer on the yacht, then he is muerto now, mi amigo."
The tall man turned his gaze toward the decorative cut glass panes of the window, and contemplated the night beyond. Slowly, he shook his head. "Not necessarily."
Juan laughed again and slapped him on the back. "Your boy of wonder is mortal, no? Even he cannot cheat when the time to die comes. But if by some stroke of fate he lives," his dark eyes narrowed, "then perhaps you would be wise to watch your back, mi amigo. Your boy would be, shall we say, out for revenge. And then you will have quite the mess to clean up, will you not?"
A rumbling laugh burst forth from the smaller man's barrel chest as he sauntered across the room to join an animated group of people. He stopped a passing waiter and grabbed a glass of champagne off the tray, then motioned the waiter to distribute drinks to his guests.
The tall man studied him a moment longer, then strolled onto the deck.
The cold, bitter air smelled of rain. He stood at the railing and stared at the choppy black water swirling below until the pounding thud of the helicopter drew his attention. It lifted from the pad atop the yacht with a lurch as a gust of wind caught it. But it quickly straightened and shone its powerful search light across the water.
Watching until the chopper moved farther out and the thud of the rotors was a dull roar, he pulled a cigarette out of the breast pocket of his tuxedo, tapped it on his thumbnail, then lit it with the gold lighter. The end glowed in the dark night as he took a long, deep drag from it. The smoke and his breath swirled together in the cold air.
He leaned casually against the rail until the cigarette burned down nearly to his fingertips. With a deft toss, the butt sailed over the side of the yacht. He watched it disappear, then straightened to his full height.
A low pitched chuckle escaped his mouth. So, it was to be a game, was it?
He always enjoyed a good game.
PART I
—Exodus. II. 22
Chapter 1
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The October night was as dark as the underbelly of some evil beast. The only thing that tamed it was the bleary yellow glow from the streetlights up on the sea wall.
Maris Rhodes pounded through the rain. There was a certain exhilaration in being out in brisk, wet night air—a comfort she was never quite able to find cooped up in the house or poring over dusty books in the university library. Her leg muscles pulled tight, her lungs burned for oxygen, the wind stung her cheeks, and her shoes squished in the damp sand.
In a word, she felt alive out here.
With a jump, she levered herself up the sea wall from the beach. The old colonial house she'd inherited from her grandmother sat brooding in the dark Connecticut night. It reminded her of Wuthering Heights, and was just about that cheerful.
The runner's high that had buoyed her spirits drained out of her with every step she took closer to home.
Home?
No matter how many of her books, pictures, or cherished treasures she filled it with, the house never felt like home. Maybe there were just too many years of Grandma Sophie's bitterness etched into the very walls and floorboards.
The tall, wooden backyard gate loomed in front of her. Maris pushed it open, but had barely stepped through when the wind caught it and jerked it out of her hand.
"Ow!" She brought her fingers to her mouth and sucked on them for a moment before she fought the gate shut and slipped the latch into place. The storm was definitely worse now than it had been when she'd left the house forty-five minutes ago. The boughs of the ancient maple tree in the yard creaked and groaned, mixing with the distant rumble of the surf down on the beach.
The sound sent a prickle of gooseflesh up her spine.
She peered over the fence, then glanced around the dark back yard, which was lit only by the lone bulb of the porch light. One hand gripped the small canister of pepper spray on her key chain a little harder, while the other hand instinctively brushed against her trusty Spyderco knife clipped to the waistband of her leggings.
The rain, which had been falling steadily, suddenly poured down in great, shimmering torrents.
Maris sprinted through the backyard and shoved her key into the back door lock. Maybe the old house wasn't so bad tonight after all. At least it was dry and warm…and had a solid, locking door.
She dodged inside, pulled off her Gore-Tex jacket, and draped it on the doorknob. Rain lashed with fury against the bay window next to her mother's grand piano, and gusts of wind shook the walls as she stirred up the coals in the fireplace with the poker and threw on another log. It popped and crackled as flames licked at it.
After shucking her wet running shoes, she headed toward the kitchen.
A good, dutiful runner would, of course, swallow a couple of quarts of water along about now to replenish the fluids lost during exertion. But this was real life. And the twelve-pack of Diet Coke on the bottom shelf of the fridge crooned to her like a siren's song. If only all life's decisions were so easy. With a grin, she grabbed a can, popped the top, and savored every ounce of artificial sweetener and caffeine.
She returned to the living room, dropped onto the overstuffed couch, and clicked on the TV.
"Tonight a body was discovered in Long Island Sound near Warstanton Beach," the stentorian voice of the news anchor droned. "The thirty-something male has not been identified yet, but authorities confirm he is not a victim of the late season tropical storm that's raging only two hundred miles offshore. He had been strangled and bludgeoned and—"
Thunder rumbled through the house, rattling the walls and window panes. She barely heard the jangle of the telephone through the cacophony.
She grabbed it off the sofa table, but before she could even say hello, a masculine voice boomed through the silence following the thunder. "So, how's our esteemed, philanthropist scholar doing tonight?"
She held the receiver slightly away from her ear and grimaced. "Jeez, I'm not sure the neighbors heard you, Speng. You want to shout that again?"
A low-pitched, familiar chuckle came over the phone line. "Let's see…" She heard the purposeful rattle of newspaper. "Maris Rhodes, the daughter of eminent archaeologist and Yale alumnus, Geoffrey Rhodes, has helped secure a sizeable grant from the International Society of Classical Studies (ISCS), which will fund a new exhibit on ancient Athenian Ceramics for the Peabody Museum," he read. "Ms. Rhodes, who speaks seven languages, obviously impressed Dr. Konstantin Papadopoulos with her knowledge and passion for Classical Studies."
"Yeah, yeah. I saw the article already and they made it into way more than it was."
Her best pal since high school ignored her and continued with gusto, "Following in her father's footsteps, Ms. Rhodes is currently a Ph.D. student in Classics here at Yale. She spent her formative years" —he snickered— "working at her father's side all over the world, then settled in Colorado where she earned her BA from the University of Colorado. She also received a full scholarship to medical school several years ago, which she turned down. Ms. Rhodes wouldn't comment on why, saying it was personal—"
"Yes, and so's the rest of my life, thank you very much," she cut in. "And speaking of lives, don't you have one of your own, Dr. Spengler?"
"Hey, you should be impressed, Rhodes. You just made the front page of the Yale Daily News. The nation's oldest daily college newspaper."
"Oh, please. The only reason I made the front page is because I'm Geoffrey Rhodes's daughter."
"Yes, but after all, you did have those formative years."
She grinned. "Jerry, shut up."
"Sure, Maris. Whatever you say." But she heard the laughter in his voice.
"Are you at the hospital?"
"Yeah, on my dinner break. Thought I'd call and see how the old house of gloom's holding up in the storm."
"Still standing. The surf's really pounding though. I just got back from a run a few minutes—"
"Ah, jeez! You'd think your years of dangling off cliffs in Colorado would have cured you of your danger lust. But no, not you. You have to prance out in the middle of the night, in a hurricane, to go for a run."
"I run all the time by the sea wall. It's well lit. Perfectly safe. And the storm's not a hurricane, it's a tropical storm and it's well offshore."
"But not for long. I hear it's beginning to track west, which means it could get a whole lot worse before it gets better. Are you okay on groceries and firewood?"
She chuckled at his mother-hennish tone. "Yes, and you know I can take care of myself."
"Okay, but I'll be here at the hospital until morning if you need anything. Carol and the twins are down in Jersey at her parents for a few days, so I'll be around."
"I'll be fine, but thanks."
"I'd better run. Just got paged." She heard the muffled sound of his beeper in the background.
"Don't work too har—" A bolt of lightening slashed through the dark night, followed by a loud POP! A second later the TV and lights blinked off. "Damn."
"What happened?"
Maris rose from the couch and threw another log on the fire. "The electricity just went off."
She crept closer to the fire. As long as it burned it wouldn't be truly dark in the house. She breathed a sigh of relief and tried not to peer into the shadowy recesses of the room.
"You got plenty of flashlight batteries and candles handy?"
"Hey, it's me. I'm always prepared."
An undignified snort answered her. "Yeah, right. What you are is a master at thinking fast on your feet. They should give degrees in 'flying by the seat of your pants.'"
"Thank you so much for this insightful conversation, Dr. Spengler. I'd love to chit chat some more, but don't you have a job to do?"
"Yeah, they just paged me again. Stay out of trouble, Rhodes."
"I always do."
Another snort echoed through the line as she hung up the receiver.
She grabbed the flashlight from the desk and flipped it on. Using its thin beam, she searched out the stash of candles and matches she kept in the dining room buffet.
The front page of the Yale Daily News glared up at her from the top of the table.
The pretentious article Jerry had been referring to had made its appearance in this morning's paper. They'd made her out to be some intellectual wonder woman she didn't even recognize. If she'd been asked once today while she was on campus, she'd been asked a dozen times, "When you've completed your degree, will you go on to do your post doctorate work at Oxford as your father did? Will you go to work for Dr. Papadopoulos at the ISCS? Will you chair the committee on the preservation of classical sites?" By the end of the day she'd wanted to rip the damn paper to shreds and write a scathing letter to the editor giving her unglorified version of the story.
The academic community could care less about the real Maris Rhodes. They didn't want to hear that in spite of the fact she was Geoffrey Rhodes's daughter, classical studies was not the be-all, end-all of her universe. They didn't care that she'd been immersed in it growing up simply because her parental unit lived and breathed it. Didn't care that she'd learned seven languages out of necessity, because when you lived in different countries you tended to pick up the native tongue in order to eat, drink, and find the bathroom. And they certainly didn't want to hear that Geoff Rhodes's high-IQ daughter would rather be climbing a mountain or schlepping across the tundra with a pack on her back than brown-nosing it in stuffy academic circles. That would never be good enough for the ivy league folk. It certainly hadn't been good enough for Grandma Sophie.